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covenwrites-blog · 7 years

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Solomon and Sheba - Party VI by gray glube and ohyellowbird

Title: Solomon and Sheba

Authors: grayglube & ohyellowbird

Rating: M

Warnings: Language, sexual situations, dub-con themes, violence

A/N: Smut delivery. Also, the plot thickens?

Madison comes in and finds her sitting at the kitchen table after dinner. She’s lonely, thinking about fall back home, thinking about how Charlie and her used to rake lawns together, first dates and pumpkin picking. Polar bear dares during winter break.

“What are you drinking?”

“Gin.”

Madison sits down next to her, puts her feet in her lap and pushes the bottle around, “What’s wrong?”

Zoe shrugs, “I don’t know.” She doesn’t want to talk about it. Madison waves a hand for her drink, it slides across the wood, eventually Zoe wants more of it, “Okay, gimme.”

They drink. Madison needs to redo the polish on her toes.

“Madison?”

“What?”

“You ever lose someone you really cared about?”

There’s a snort and a long drawn out breath before Madison smiles wry and mean, “Yeah, my entire fucking childhood.”

“I meant a person.”

“Oh,” Madison thinks, Zoe expects her to say something like ‘my mom’ even though Zoe knows Madison’s mom is alive, but might as well be dead for all she does for her daughter, but Madison just say, “no.”

“Okay.”

“…”

Zoe knows she’s more than buzzed, more than half-way to drunk, “I miss Charlie.”

“Charlie is dead.”

The glass falls off the table when Madison reaches for it, the feet in Zoe’s lap pull off.

“Just leave me alone now, Madison.”

The rest of the night she spends in the kitchen, drunk is how Queenie finds her. She’s considerate enough to bring her upstairs and into the bathroom.

Madison is brushing her hair, ignoring them. Zoe figures she deserves it. No one holds her hair back for her, but in the morning there’s bottled water and tylenol on her bed stand when she wakes up. Dry toast and orange juice. Zoe’s head spins.

“You asked why it was different. With Madison.”

Kyle can feel the wide berth between them. Zoe stands at the window, half-turned to survey the grounds without opening the curtains to see. Her hair is sleek, face rosy from the heat without being gross. He stays sat on Archie’s empty bed, replies, “yeah.”

Weighted by the guilt of their bad date and by what he’d done outside after with Peter, it’s hard to look her in the eye.

She slips her fingers down the frayed edge of one curtain, sweeps up windowsill dust, feigns disinterest. Her skin is sallow and she looks too thin inside a big sweater and calf-length boots, “It’s because of specificity, your powers work best on girls and mine work best on boys. It’s why we have a separation of schools in the first place, Madison’s Influence is similar to what we can do, yours is meant to engender someone into…being with you, and mine is meant to kill someone. Influence is a neutral power, compulsion is something that is only seen in warlocks, and constraint is only seen in witches.”

Cyril had never served it up in such plain terms. Kyle blinks, “How come?”

“Because warlocks fathered more children than witches gave birth to, because when witches with the power of constraint came around they needed to have a power that made it easier to propagate the race, on females in general, just like witches have needed to protect themselves against men, in general.” During her explanation, Zoe drifts closer, touching on the edges of his desk and chair, only giving him her eyes in little glimpses.

He wants to apologize for the date, mouth soggy with I’m sorrys. “Where did you learn all of this?”

Something passes between them, a look, and then her body language loosens up, arms unfold. Forgiveness. “Books. Not nice ones. Apocrypha, mostly.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

She’s opening her bag and starts pulling things out, chapstick, a hairbrush, a book and then another, shoving her mishmash of miscellaneous girl stuff back inside, she hands him one, “It’s like a record book, enrollment, like a family tree but instead of dates and marriages and birth,s it records witches and warlocks and their powers.”

It’s old and bound in black leather, it reads like a ledger inside. The other one is in her hands still, she gives it a look he can’t read.

“And how many have ours?” He looks at the handful of bright page markers, he counts them, there’s four neon pinks, six dark blues, more green than those combined and there are two purple ones.

“Not many, there’s a lot of stories, legends and stuff. Biblical, Mesopotamian, Arthurian, evil archangels, weird stuff, angels of prostitution, succubus, incubus. I marked them, blue for boy, pink for girl, green for influence.”

She hands him the one she’s held onto. Its cracked green cover has two words on it, concilium nocuus, in black bold letters. He doesn’t know what it means, either.

He asks.

“It’s latin. Concilium is influence, Noccus means dark or harmful, the way you’re not supposed to use influence.” Sitting on his bed, made only because she was coming over, Zoe collects her hair with her hands, spins it into a bun on the top of her head, lets it fall.

“But that’s out power.” Kyle drags over his desk chair to sit opposite her. Their knees don’t touch.

“There’s a log of council ruling in the black one, one of them was that you can’t actively practice constraint or compulsion or try to develop it in a way that is dangerous. It’s different if it’s your first manifestation of a…talent. The purples are a witch and warlock who got burned for using their powers for murder and rape.”

Kyle plucks over the little plasticy tips with his fingers. “Only two.”

“They only burn you if you use them on another witch or warlock, they don’t really count normal people,” she says, looking down to knock her toes into the sides of his shoes.

“So what are these for?”

Her eyes draw up, on his face and then the book in his hands. “I snuck them out, I’ve finished reading them and I thought maybe it was time we were on the same page.”

Kyle drops the book, heavy on the tops of his thighs, and reaches for one of her hands, turns it over to trace the tiny lines in admiration. She lets him, watching quietly, tap tap tapping against his fingertips with hers when they still.

He thumbs over one of her unpainted nails, voice soft. “I’m sorry about being a shithead, I don’t know why I was like that.”

“Okay.”

She wraps her fingers around his thumb fast and smirks up at him, he startles, she laughs. It feels good, a little bridge between them. He doesn’t want to let her leave, he wants to kiss her but he doesn’t, he knows it would ruin their quiet moment of camaraderie. She might push him away and he knows no matter what he’ll want to keep kissing her.

It’s raining out and Zoe left to go do something, Madison lies on the sofa, Queenie reads, Nan cuts a long line of paper dolls, “I thought science fiction was supposed to be robots and alien sex.” Queenie announces from the floor.

“It isn’t?” Madison asks, moving on the couch to make room for Nan. She lights a cigarette and helps Nan paint nails on the paper silhouettes, she lights a cigarette after Nan tells her nail polish is flammable just to be a bitch. Queenie flips through pages in Left Hand of Darkness.

“Nah, there’s sex in this one, not weird alien sex, though. I haven’t gotten to the robots.”

“Le Guin?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Fucking feminist,” Madison grumbles, comical in her response mostly because she’s ambivalent to the literature, partly because she likes dick too much to really get man-hate. She tells Queenie as much.

“Girl you’ve got problems. Not about hate, it’s about equality.”

“You know a lot about that, Aunt Jemima? You’re still black, Nan’s got her bag of issues and we’re all still girls.There is no such thing as equality, just fucking each other over.”

Queenie’s mouth drops open and Madison smokes, Queenie makes a sound in her throat to get Madison’s attention, she’s had it for awhile but Madison isn’t invested enough in the conversation to fight about modern female politics.

“You are a twat.” Nan tells her, stealing the words out of Queenie’s mouth. Madison smiles. “Thanks.”

“Do you ever listen to what you say?”

“She doesn’t.” Nan tells Queenie, Madison nods, picks away a ragged paper edge on Nan’s string of little women.

“But she’s right, no one’s equal. And we’re all better. We’re witches.”

Madison looks up, ponderous. She hadn’t even thought of that. Neither had Queenie. They brush it off and return to menial tasks, outside it’s still raining.

He cracks open the books and promptly shuts them again, eyes searching the den, Squirrel is on his stomach staring at his lizard lying placidly in front of him. Peter had said something scathing, ‘They have a deep spiritual connection’ not too long ago, and has long since wandered off.

Anything with pictures of naked breasts gets a rise out of him, even if it’s centuries old book engravings. He peeks again at the bookmarked page and reads a caption that has the word ‘copulation’ in it, he shuts the book again and rubs a hand over the cover.

He takes them upstairs and looks at his bed before deciding the desk is the best place to read things he needs to concentrate on fully, beyond just looking at the pictures.

There are little notes on post-its, slips of paper tucked among the old pages.

Someone knocks on his door, “Yeah.”

He nudges the books closer to the wall. Dalton comes in and shuts the door. “Hey, what’s up?”

“I just came to get some stuff, for Archie. Cyril told me that witch is going to stop by tonight, we’ll clean him up and stuff.”

Thinking of it now Kyle hasn’t seen Misty Day in awhile, not at Robichaux or led up to the attic to see Archie by Cyril, “Has she been coming lately?”

Dalton doesn’t look up from Archie’s side of the room, opening a drawer and pulling out clothes, they land on the bed haphazard and wrinkled the same way Archie put them away to begin with, “No.”

“That’s weird.”

“Cyril said she’s been off the mortal coil.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Some swamp accident, alligator rescue effort.”

Kyle remembers that Misty doesn’t live at Robichaux’s, “Oh. So she, like, died?” Dalton shrugs, “Guess so.”

“Her name is Misty, you know?” Kyle opens and closes a book cover to have something to do with his hands, the motion makes Dalton look, Kyle stops and pushes the book over on the desk.

Too late, “What are you reading?”

“Uh…” He doesn’t have anything at the ready to lie with. Dalton’s eyes narrow, a flare of bitterness and resentment, “She was here today, but she didn’t stay. Your girlfriend.”

“Not my girlfriend.”

“Whatever she is, I don’t give a shit.” Dalton forgets about Archie’s clothes and stands behind his chair, “So, what’d she bring?”

Kyle tries to hunch over them but Dalton is persistent, “Just books. Apocrophix, aprocrophata, apoc-something.”

“Apocrypha?”

“Yeah.”

Dalton leans a skinny hip into the edge of the desk and reaches for it, “How far does it go back?”

“Eighteen Hundred.”

There’s an eyebrow raise, Dalton’s chosen expression of either disdain or wary appreciation. This time it looks like the latter. “What’s the other one?”

Kyle slides it over the desk top, watches Dalton flip back pages, read off something written in a long line across the top of a blank page with flourish, “Qui nequissimus est opus noxia. Rake’s, Knave’s, something like that, Council, work of, harmful.” Dalton gives him a look over the page, “Yeah, don’t let Cyril see this.”

“Why not?

“Well…,” Dalton’s stare doesn’t give him anything to work with, “Cyril wouldn’t give a shit if you have it. Peter on the other hand, maybe. Don’t let Peter borrow it.” There’s something like a warning in his tone.

“You know Latin?”

Dalton looks down at the books, touching them lightly, like he’s remembering something, “I grew up having to read shit like this.” He flicks open the bigger book, “Simple stuff. This is,” He pauses reading the words and mouthing them again, slowly, word by word, “The Rake or Knave’s, harmful council,” there’s another pause, and Dalton’s brow creases, his eyes coming up to look at the wall as he mentally works at the words, “work of the harmful knave. Something like that. Depends on how it reads.” Dalton flips through a few pages more, then goes by with larger sections of the old paper over and between his long fingers. Decides it translates to The Rake’s Harmful Council while Kyle sits silent and dumb, “You’ve read stuff like this?”

“Gran’s a witch, read some stuff. Not this kind of stuff. The basics.”

“I didn’t know that.”

Dalton never really talks about his family, none of them do. Still, Kyle is surprised Dalton knows that someone is his family is a witch, has learned from someone before he came around to the school. It could explain the physicality of his power.

He pulls off the desk, “Whatever.” His expression goes a little haughty around the mouth, “You’d need like a decade of latin to cast a spell in this right, so don’t go messing around with it.”

Kyle looks down at pictures of medieval nudity and badly drawn and enunciated penises on what looks like an evil wizard. He smirks a little at the page, rolling his eyes, “What is it? Sex magic?” He grins. trying to be funny.

“Yes.” Dalton deadpans.

Kyle feels his expression fall off his face and into the metaphorical mud puddle, “Oh.”

He thinks Dalton is going to leave, it looks like Dalton thought so too, but he still stays standing next to the desk, there’s a small moment of silence that Kyle takes as Dalton deciding whether or not to engage in further human to human conversation for once, “Why’d she give this to you?”

“She thought it might help.”

“Well how’d she get it?”

“I think she borrowed it.”

“Uh-huh.” There’s a smirk that Kyle returns, they both know that’s bullshit. “You gonna tattle on us, Dalton?”

He shakes his head, goes to pick up Archie’s clothes from the bed, “It’s just weird that they have something like this. Since it’s not written for witches.”

“Oh.”

“I gotta get the rest of his stuff together.” Dalton disappears into the connecting bathroom.

“Dalton?”

“What?”

Kyle pauses, chews on the end of a pen before getting the question out right, “Since you can read Latin could you help me read this fucking thing?”

There’s a long moment. A head pops out from around the door frame,“Fine. But we have to give Archie a bath. He’s always a pain in the ass about it.”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks.” Kyle thinks maybe Dalton was waiting to be asked for help.

“Whatever.” He mumbles around a cigarette, his lighter doesn’t catch, he looks at it, “Fuck, I need a flint.”

“Hey.”

“Yeah, what?”

Kyle lights his cigarette with a thought from across the room. Dalton inhales in surprise, coughs and looks at the cigarette, “When did that happen?”

“Couple days ago.”

“You should go tell Cyril. He’d want to know.”

Dalton’s leaving and Kyle feels weird about where their friendship stands, if it’s really friendship at all or merely benign tolerance without attachment. Ever since Archie died their entire team dynamic has been off.

“Hey, you okay?”

Dalton stops walking, gives him a withering look that asks without words if Kyle is full of shit.

Kyle winces and smiles at the expression, “sorry, dumb question.”

“I’m fine. Come upstairs and help in like an hour.”

The tiny half of Valium running its way through her circulatory system has her feeling too good for words, she thinks she can sympathize with Madison’s issues with addiction if this is how it feels. Madison called it Breakfast at Tiffany’s after breaking the scored tablet in two and leaving one piece in her hand after a smirk and dry swallow of her own.

She guesses by the Lincoln town car in the car port that Cyril is back from whatever secret warlock and witch mixer he and Fiona disappeared to. She smelt cigarettes in the upstairs hallway before they left and she took it to mean the Supreme was back in house.

Madison’s suggestion of pre-lesson relaxation made her uneasy but Zoe caved, reminded that Madison’s around to have her back. A shaggy haired boy she’s seen before but whose name she can’t remember answers the door and tells her Kyle’s is in the backyard. He drifts away, floats, maybe. Zoe’s envious until she corrects her thoughts that swimming everywhere. Paulie offers Madison a spot next to him on the sofa in the living room set behind french doors. There’s a closed door to the study, Cyril behind it probably. Paulie tells her, over the back of the couch and an easy, lazy smile, that he saw Kyle head up stairs right before they came.

Zoe manages the stairs, slowly, transfixed by how well vacuumed the carpeting is, how drastically the bannisters shine.

On the bed inside his room he’s sprawled out on his back, nude in the sweaty sticky final dying gasp of summer heat before autumn blows in for real. The room smells like boy, like solitary sex and fresh air and she watches closely, considers telling him he’s pulling too hard.

The slick wet wash in her underwear comes with heat, she wants to touch it too, but that’s not so surprising in the moment, she wants to kiss him. All of him, maybe.

“Don’t act like you’re not impressed,” he huffs a laugh, pumping himself, angry and red and swollen. She feels swollen too, he laughs again, sits up and swings his legs to her side of the room, “gonna leave the door open all day.”

He looks like a lazy minor pantheon godling. Her mouth can’t articulate the poetry her brain lets drift off on the baby blue haze of druggy euphoria so she shakes her head in the negative and knocks the door shut clumsily with the toe of her sneaker.

When he stands up she decides it’s not the pharmaceutical mix of feel-good and girlhood giddiness feeding her high that’s made him suddenly taller and boy parts more appealing looking than high-school sexual education prepared her for. There’s old butterfly bandages on his chest she doesn’t remember feeling.

“Oh,” she starts and blinks, looks down once and back up at his face when he steps closer, erection bobbing like a separate entity, not coming too close but close enough to know it isn’t Kyle.

Kyle smells like classic heavy scented deodorant and store bought aftershave, something with an awful commercial but distinctly male nonetheless, not-Kyle smells like sixty dollar a bottle spice that she doesn’t like at all, he smells like deception and magic.

“You must be…”

Not-Kyle smiles.

“Peter,” he supplies, inclines and shakes his head with a laugh, nonplussed by being found out.

“Where’s Kyle?”

“Backyard.”

“Oh.”

“How’d I do?” He stands straighter for her inspection, suddenly very serious.

“Not bad, I guess.”

She finds herself momentarily transfixed by his dick, wonders if it’s an exact replica or just an over exaggerated mimicry of the one she’s felt pressed thick and firm on the inside of her thigh.

“Not impressed?”

“Seen boys naked before.”

“Oh. Give me a second.”

It’s stunning, like a sunrise, the slow eating away of form into a new one, reformed suddenly and slowly in a way she can’t really comprehend, she’s looking at her own naked self, an approximation but pretty close, she wonders how he got it so close, she giggles, rolling through a light stupor, thinking that boys are gross. She wonders if they sit around and try to make themselves look like the girls who beat them at strip poker by wearing extra accessories while they end up naked with losing high-cards.

“Is that what you do for fun?” She takes a step and presses fingertips to a too big and slightly differently shaped breast on a body that looks like hers, Peter presses up and she pulls her hand away. “The boobs are wrong. The nipples ar…-”

The door bangs open and Kyle stands in the frame staring at them, and then looking at the wall. “What the fu-…”

Peter deadpans that it is exactly what it looks like.

Kyle makes room for Peter-as-Peter to pass once he’s put on pants. The door shuts slowly and Kyle knocks his head against the door, ‘I’m going to kill him.”

“That was weird.” Her voice must be off because when he looks at her it’s probing, he takes the three steps towards her it takes for their toes to be an inch apart. He smells like store bought aftershave and heavy scented deodorant, her sex clenches, empty and wet and suddenly hot.

“Are you high?” He sniffs once at her face and then again trying harder, she tiptoes up an inch and sways, hands coming up to steady herself, they touch his chest and he sways back, “Maybe.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” But he says it with a laugh, amused as he flops back onto the bed with a step around her.

“I wouldn’t lay on that. Another person was masturbating there like a second ago.”

“What!”

“Hey, it’s fine,” she smiles, sitting on the bed he isn’t, “There’s another one.” He gets up and looks at her sitting down, he’s just barely settled when she kisses him. Because it’s Kyle, because she likes kissing Kyle. He’s Kyle.

“Why are you high?”

“It’s rude not to partake, Madison says. Thought it might help. It is. It’s my turn anyway so I’m allowed to do what I want. You’re not.” She snickers, his face goes dumb before he says, “Zoe.” She frowns at it and shakes it off by pulling her shirt over her head, pulling the straps of her bralette off her shoulders, struggling to remember how exactly she normally takes it off, down her legs or over her head, it ends up on the floor too.

She sits back down and slips off her shoes, talking while she unlaces. “He got my boobswrong.” She looks down at her chest, considers each breast and soft pink nipple, it’s warm in the room, she touches them, distracted for a moment by the color. She leans back and puffs out her chest, looking at them like someone looks at shoes they’ve just put on, “I like mine better, anyway.”

Kyle makes a sound in his throat, clears it, “Yeah, they’re nice.” She beams, glad she’s isn’t the only one who thinks so, “Thanks. Take off your shirt.” He takes a moment to comply.

Her nails are a vivid dark shade of blue to match the canvas on her oxfords, they look strange on his skin, she drags a nail over his nipple and explains that on boys they’re ornamental only, that they serve no real purpose, just for show like plastic fruit or silk flowers.

Kyle nods studiously.

“Okay, sorry. I’ll stop talking, we can start practicing now.”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever you want. Can I kiss you?”

“Nope. Not yet.” She swings astride and kneads his shoulders with her fingers, “This was a good idea, more skin, in contact.”

“Yeah.”

She puts her head under his chin and wraps arms around him, touching her mouth to patches of skin between shoulder and fifth ribs, his chest expands with deep breathes and his hand squeezes the mattress edge on the outside of her knee, “And it’s a good idea since we’ll have to be naked,” she adds with a mumble to his bicep.

He jerks a little, a car accidentally shifted into neutral before a full stop, “What? When?”

“When we have sex.”

“What?” His head keeps moving and knocking into her cheek while she works on kissing his neck, “Why do you keep saying what?” He cranes his neck back, it feels like he’s getting away, she’s up by his ear, tongue tipping the lobe and he sags back, her weight on him suddenly welcome, “I don’t know. I just forgot, I guess. That’s a while away though.”

“Not if we practice more. I wish it was your turn. My turns are always bad.”

“Not all of them.”

She pulls back to look at his mouth, “Is this one okay?” Her eyes find his looking at her face, “Yeah. So far so good.”

She smiles and goes back to his skin.

His hand is hot and big over the expanse of nylon covering her from waist to toe under her modest skirt, he tips back on the bed and keeps her chest pressed tight to his, fingers poking under the elastic band on her tiny waist, eventually it lies tight across his wrist like a girl’s hair elastic, then his forearm as he fits his hand over the back of her underwear, his fingertips and thumb grazing skin but he keeps control in mind and his powers in check.

She kisses him syrup slow and druggy, drops plush pecks over his throat and pulse, he turns his head to the side and she latches on under his ear to suck a hickey into existence. He watches her hands fist in the sheets, her fingers open and close and roll her chest against his. “You’re chest is scratchy,” she tells him with a little laugh in his ear.

“I’ll shave it.”

“Don’t, I like it. It be like making out with a girl if you shaved it.”

She works her breasts against him gently, deciding it feels like wearing a soft wool sweater without a bra.

Her mouth is lax and swollen, a lazy smile sweeps over it and he surges up to feel it with his mouth. His fingers clench and unclench on the soft swell of her ass, she wriggles and sighs on his clavicle, “I wish it was your turn. You make me feel good.”

His dick twitches inside his jeans and between her thighs at what she says and how her hips move, forward as her bottom tilts up. His fingertips dip under her thighs and find the soft swell of her sex, prod wet cotton up between her folds and slide against the slick growing patch of proved arousal.

He finds her mouth sloppily with his tongue and opens her lips, she kisses his all open mouth and tongue and teeth on his lip, his fingers slide aimlessly against her slit, hot under the spongy cotton.

“You’re wet.”

“Uh-huh,” she mewls back, mouth pouty and eyes closed, distracted and unfocused and his chest tingles, his lips disappearing under numb tingles, he sniffs and tastes blood.

“Zoe.”

“Hmmmm?”

“Get off.”

“Oh!”

She rolls off and bounces a little next to him, he makes a sound, fighting through the migraine that feels like shrapnel behind his eyes, metallic and cold and excruciating. Not worse than when she spit in a glass and made him drink it but quick and surprising. The persistent throb of his erection halving in intensity under the icy stabs of sudden discomfort at his temples.

Zoe isn’t on the bed, she’s at the door talking to someone, wearing his shirt. Peter comes in from the hall and looks down at him, makes a disinterested face and turns back to Zoe.

“Nice tent, eagle scout.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Peter smiles and makes to leave the room, “He’s fine, just a nosebleed. He’s being a baby. “

“Okay,” she answers to an already closing door.

“Have fun.”

There’s another knock a moment later and a tentative, ‘Zoe,’ spoken through the door.

“Yeah?”

Madison’s head pops in, “You okay?”

“Yeah. I can fix it.”

“Okay, I’ll be out in the hall.”

The mattress slowly dips, cautious hands smooth his hair over and over, “Kyle?” He let’s his eyes slip open, “yeah?”

“Did you read the books I gave you yet?”

“Some parts.” He admits, though mostly he just dogeared promising passages and went on to pages with pictures.

“Did you get to the part where they talked about how to, how to…” she struggles with finding the right words to describe what she means to ask, “keep things…uh…negate things?”

“Yeah.”

She nods, her eyes concerned, hands still petting at his head and fingers soothing on his scalp, his dick returns to it’s former state of readiness.

“You should try to do it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He lets a little bit seep out of him, away from where he can control it, and slips it into her mouth with his tongue, she makes to move for more but he presses a hand under her jaw and pushes her mouth off of his.

“That’s good enough. It feels a little bit better now.” There’s a smear of orange red over her mouth and cheek, from him, he rubs it away with his thumb.

She lets her head fall next to his on the bed and sighs, shaky and heavy, her legs rub together and her knees nudge his thigh, on her side next to him she rubs her face against the bedding, eyes watching him. It reminds him of cats looking for attention, insistent and intense.

“Kyle?”

Her voice is low, warm breath and want.

“Yeah?” He’s shut his eyes in hopes he won’t look at her and sound the same without knowing it, for posterity, for the sake of being able to control saying ‘fuck it.’

“…Kyle.”

Her knee comes up higher, heel nudging the side of his knee and foot sliding down his calf, toes finding the hem of his jeans and creeping up to nudge at his sock, push it down infinitesimally and touch his knobby ankle, “Don’t do that.”

“You make me feel good.” And he feels her arm maneuver down along his side, feel the back of her hand against his hip briefly as she tucks it between her legs under her skirt and down her tights, he can feel her little fingers moving. His eyes open and watch hers lid heavily half-way, the gradual flush of pink arousal over her neck and heavy breathing chest, “It feels good when you touch me.”

His breath catches when she sighs, pressing tighter and warmer against his bare side, “Do you want me to get Madison?”

She keens, fingers stopping for a moment to press, “I don’t want Madison.”

“I’m going to get her.”

When he sits up she doesn’t and it makes him pause, look down at her, hips tilted into the mattress because of his absence and extrication from her soft prison limbs, he stares at the sheerness of her stockings where her hand stretches them, the suggestion of her ass curving under black nylon, the pale shadow of her skin underneath, strangely seductive, his dick throbs and weeps sticky inside his briefs.

She mumbles,“please don’t ruin this.”

“Ruin what?”

Her hand is still working outside of her white underwear when she sits up with knees folded open flat against the bed and curves against the line of his side, “I like when it’s just us, that’s what. Just you…and me. I’m getting better with it,” her hand snaps out of her stockings to grab his, he can see the slickness on her fingertips when she brings his to her mouth and lets her tongue nudge them, kiss them before sighing, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, “I’m getting stronger, see?”

“Zoe…,”

Her mouth slowly spreads into a smile while her knees widen and she rocks up against his hip, the crotch of her stockings is messy wet and two of his fingers are in her mouth up to the knuckle, her lips drag over them, tongue moving with a dirty insinuating tease as he pulls them free, he can’t breathe.

“See? You can still feel your fingers right?”

“Yeah.”

She drops her chest to the bed, both hands working their way back inside her stockings, she breathes hard, one leg straight and the other shifted, bent haphazardly in his lap, knee nudging his groin, “You don’t have to touch me, I can do it myself, but I still like touching you anyway. I like you, Kyle.”

Her pelvis rocks and her eyes close, half-smile turning toothy as a canine digs into the fuller bottom lip of her pouty mouth.

“I like you too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He smoothes a hand over where her slim calf is hard with a curve of muscle, she mewls, rocks harder, ass clenching, white panties against black stockings, knee kneading and nudging, he’s going to cum inside of his jeans.

Her mouth is open and her teeth drag over the bedding, a damp circle from her tongue forming, he realizes he’s working his hips in the same rhythm against her leg as her are against the bed and her fingers. She watches him orgasm, he misses hers and wishes he kept his eyes open to see it.

She breathes, face against the bed, pulls her limbs to her and rolls back onto her side, head on her forearms, eyes slipping closed, “I’m tired.” He nods, he is too. He lies down next to her. She offers him the curve of her spine and makes sure to hold his hand in hers over the swell of her breast, her bottom mercifully still after a moment of lazy rolling back and forth as she falls asleep.

He’s awake for a little longer, daydreaming against her skin about dipping fingers inside of her, how she’d feel on his fingers, wetter than the inside of her mouth, the twinge in his dick a brief aftershock. He holds her tight, too tight he worries but her mouth breathes open and warm on the inside of his wrist. It feels like she’s his.

There are board games set out all across the long dining table. Some boxes have sharpied discounted prices written on the sides, missing pieces inside, picked up from this yard sale or that. The girls have Scattergories set out, each of them with their own placard and notepad, miniature golf pencils with blunt points. The buzzer goes off and Queenie reads through her list, the letter was P.

“Superheroes. I put Professor X”

“Same, dammit.”

“Kitty Pryde.”

Queenie coos. “Good one.”

“I got Princess Peach.”

Madison reaches over and runs a line through the word, “Doesn’t count.” Zoe slaps at her hand.

Nan picks up the twenty-one sided die, but doesn’t roll. “You know, we could be superheros,” she says. “We could protect people.”

Madison makes gagging noises, peels open her fingers and takes the die. “Have you seen their wardrobe? Polyester doesn’t breathe.” She rolls a D, “talk about crotch rot.”

They flip cards and Zoe turns the timer.

Cordelia put together this nostalgia fest, said partaking in a normal night in might do them some good, like they’re seven years old or just socially inept. Shocking no one, she and Fiona are missing from the table.

Zoe considers the superhero idea further, keeps them in silence except for Queenie who’s already reading through her List 6.

The forced camaraderie is making Madison sweat. “Hun, your superpower is having killer drool. I don’t think you should be expecting a call from the Avengers anytime soon, start the timer.”

Zoe rolls out her tongue and wags it, frisbees Madison the game timer and pushes back from the table. “I’m tired.”

Madison knocks it to the floor without lifting her hands, uses them to reach for Zoe instead. “Stay awhile. I’ve got a better idea.”

Queenie throws her pencil into the open game box. “Fuck your shitty idea.”

“Oh, so I guess you don’t want a hit then?” Madison maneuvers Zoe back over to perch in her lap. A deadly manicure withdraws two rolled joints from one bra cup. Nan? You game?”

Zoe pushes at the offer, but readies a Zippo. “I think I hit my limit.”

Madison cranes her neck to light up and takes two hits before passing. Queenie takes the blunt and puffs silently.

Nan doesn’t cough, she makes a face, “weak.” She passes it back and clears their half of the table, lids all of the boxes they’d gone through and stacks them in front of Fiona’s designated spot at the head.

Zoe rolls her eyes, her neck. “Shut up, Nan. Now what?”

Madison insists on high twister. Queenie flatly refuses, Nan is transfixed by the spinner-Zoe is forced into one on one limb tangling. At some point, Misty shows up eating an uncooked poptart in the doorway. The three of them play for forty-five minutes.

Later, velvet skater dresses and cigarette pants are traded for tank tops and Soffe shorts. Madison is draped horizontally across the foot of Zoe’s bed, her hair a waterfall over the edge, her eyes on the ceiling. “So did you have fun today?”

Zoe is curled by her pillows scrolling through facebook. She finishes flipping through an album and clicks her phone dark. “It was alright.”

“You are a liar.”

She sighs and rolls, stops shoulder to shoulder with Madison, her on her belly and the other girl belly up. “I shouldn’t have taken anything before. It was like a drunken one night stand, but worse because I can remember it.”

“Poor baby.” Madison pouts and plants a sticky kiss to her left eye, it’s wet and makes her cringe but she laughs pushing Madison away.

“Jesus Christ, wash your face. What was she, on her period? Cyril won’t let you wear your red-wings to the dinner table.”

Dalton and Peter are skyscrapers at the end of Kyle’s bed. Kyle has to open his eyes a few more times and even then isn’t sure who’d been talking. For getting into bitch fits so often, on some fronts they are eerily similar.

“What?”

Peter mimes. “You’ve got blood all over your face.” His nose is snarled up on one side, repulsed.

Kyle wipes at it with a heavy hand, stares at the dark red smear over his knuckle. Swallowing, he still tastes copper. “Ugh.” Rolling to the edge of his mattress, he sweeps the floor for an old shirt, plugs up his face with it until he can get to the bathroom and slumps upright.

Peter’s eyes are above where Kyle is swabbing at his upper lip. “The only people who use ‘redwings’ in casual conversation are ones who have them, Dalty.”

Dalton shrugs, “Blood doesn’t bother me, neither does pussy. Unlike either of you.”

Green eyes cut over and down. Peter is casual with his cruelty. “What a bitch.”

“Whose fault is that?”

Kyle’s spine is a comma facing away from the two boys between himself and the door.

“Puh-lease if it’d keep him quiet and nice I’d suck his dick right now in the middle of the hallway, but I’m afraid no amount of orgasm can help him,” Peter sighs, looking mildly stoic about it.

Dalton knocks him into the dresser, “is that your professional opinion, doc?” and leaves. “Don’t stay in here with him too long, Kyle. I think his mouth is a magnet for cocks.”

“Is that your professional opinion?”

Peter leaves too. He and Kyle haven’t spent any time together alone since that night on the porch. Neither of them bring it up, but there’s something less routine about the way Peter teases. His jabs are barbed, and even though his power is physically harmless, the idea that there might be malice there unsettles Kyle.

His earlier appearance in his room with Zoe has Kyle uneasy. Something like actual fear for a moment was there, Zoe a little high, smiling, with a naked dude.

Looking at himself in the mirror it occurs to him how fucked up Peter could make things, could have, like the night at the party. Zoe in his room with Peter. And his mind makes up all the awful scenarios. There’s something sinister in Peter. Sometimes.

Kyle scrubs his face, thinks about Zoe. He puts on a shirt and goes down to dinner.

The creepy butler side-eyes shade at him as he walks in, there is no gallery of black clad hungry girls at the top of the stairs, waiting like crows for dead bodies, today, Paulie looks around for Madison while he goes up to find Zoe. He knocks and gets no answer for a long minute, he knocks again, and it opens. Zoe in a cotton t-shirt and long black skirt, there’s steam from the bathroom and her hair is wet. Behind him someone clacks down the stairs in heels, Madison, he looks back at Zoe, “She’s not coming in?”

“I think we’re past that,” she answers motioning him inside her room. He casts one last look at where Paulie and Madison are snarking off at the bottom of the stairs before shutting the door.

She starts with, “I don’t want anything to happen like it did that night at the party. But, you can touch me.” Neither does he. The attic isn’t big enough for two helpings of potato-brained boy.

“How far is too far?”

“Third base.”

“Okay.”

She dressed for this, everything loose-fitting and without fastenings. Knowing that it was a conscious decision, that she stood in front of the armoire thinking of right now helps Kyle put away any of his usual reservations.

He watches her hands slip up under her skirt and then her underwear are hanging off her fingers, she tosses them carefully to a chair full of clothes and his tongue gets heavier in his mouth.

Her steps forward have him backing up to sit on the bed, hands fisted tight so he doesn’t drag her closer. She straddles him when he’s settled against the headboard, pillows propped behind his back. She looks at him, waiting. He allows his hands to ruck up skirt, upper thigh, exposing soft skin but nothing of what’s between her legs.

Her throat works on a swallow he can see, and she isn’t wearing a bra, nipples poking hard at the cotton, he wants to lift her shirt and leave hickeys on her chest. He found three from her mouth after dinner the other night.

“Did you shave during your shower?” he asks, an awkward kid under the scrutiny of expectations, he rubs her thighs, it’s nice. She nods and rolls her weight down, locks both hands around his shoulders, fingers leaving little dents in his skin, grabbing too hard. Spreading her knees a little with guiding movements, he wonders if maybe she’s become addicted to how his powers make her feel. Will it ever be the same if she decides to touch another boy like this?

There’s too much downtime, Kyle quiet and wondering if she might get sick of this. She can just as easily hone her gifts on other people, the only advantage of working with Kyle that there might be fewer bodies.

It’s midday, the sun bleeding in through gauzy white curtains. Zoe likes his face without shadow. She plucks at a chapped lip and then ducks down to taste it, leaves the anchor of his shoulders to bring one hand up underneath the puddled folds of her skirt.

“When Peter looked like you before, was that your real dick? Has he seen you naked?”

Kyle freezes up. Her voice is soft and warm and pleasantly curious, but he has to shut his eyes against the insinuation.

“Can we not talk about Peter?”

Her shoulders shrug, wet hair spider-webbing down her front. “Sure, I guess I just want to find out someday.”

There’s a beat of silence where he doesn’t know how to respond, still perturbed that she would be thinking about Peter right now, but then the want for a response dwindles. Zoe opens up his hand, palm up, and rubs herself along the lines in a bobbing motion. There and gone.

He lets his fingers curve into a more ergonomic shape, grazing her on every downstroke.

“Take off your shirt.” It passes from her mouth and over the rasp of his cheek, but they both comply.

Shirtless, Kyle has an idea. “Turn over,” he says like a question, helping her pivot and sit again, her back against his chest and her hips cradled by his thighs. Her pointed toes would only brush his ankle.

Sealed up with so much skin touching like this, he has to exude more energy reeling his powers in.

His hand gravitates between her legs again and she tilts her pelvis for easy entry, head lolled to one side, eyes half-open.

She looks complacent, but the way her fingers grab and pull at the knee of his jeans speak of something real. He watches her chest fill up and empty out, feels the air leaving her against the left side of his chest and gives where she wants him.

Fingers gentle on his wrist guiding, he lets fingertips linger on the safety of her mound, she’s smooth there too and he knows while he’s touching her that she hadn’t just meant her legs by the affirmation of his question of shaving during her shower.

The line of her groin is hot and she sucks in a heaving sigh, “Touch me.”

He tucks a kiss to her neck that makes her jump a little, “I am,” one finger slipping along her slit, back and forth, long simple strokes, he doesn’t want to admit that he’s never done this before, at least not like this, not with so much intention and attention paid to how he’s touching her. He lifts his other hand to her breast, thumbs her nipple and gently cups her with two fingers on either side of where she is leaking heat steadily.

“Do you want them inside? Is that what you mean?”

She tips her head up, tongue poking out the corner of her mouth, “Whatever you want, it’s your turn.”

Kyle pinches her nipple and nudges a finger inside, a second after two slow drags in and out, fingers rolling her nipple while he works between her thighs. He lets them rest inside, squeezed by her clenching body, her thighs tighten before opening wide like a book, a hand scratching at the sheets and the other pulling his hand from her breast to lattice their fingers together.

“Are you okay?” His eyes are on their folded hands. She feeds the handshake little pumps of pressure each time his other hand reaches, wriggles inside of her. Her toes curl and uncurl on the sheets.

“Yes.”

“Does it feel good?” Inside she clenches, hugging his fingers wetly for a brief fluttering moment.

Her lungs fill all the way up while he watches, chest falling in slow motion with a huff of irritation, both eyes are closed. “Don’t ask me stuff like that, Kyle.”

“Why not? I want to know.”

“I can’t focus.”

The languid rhythm of his fingers stops, halfway inside with the pad of his thumb resting over the soft skin under her navel. “It’s my turn, remember? I’m the one that has to focus.”

She warps in his arms, twists more to one side without dislodging his hand. “Is that why you talk so much?”

“I’m just nervous.”

She smiles. Her fingers unhook from the sheets and reach back, sift blindly through the hair covering his ears, trace out the shape of his jaw and chin. It isn’t anything close to how rounding the bases is supposed to go, from bat boy to third within the span of two shots and three songs at a friend’s birthday party. Everything is planned here, but it doesn’t have to feel mechanical. The way Kyle turns into her palm and pecks a kiss over the veins on her wrist is something maybe lovers do.

“I keep wondering how the fuck I’m supposed to fit.” He smirks almost against her mouth, she lets out a held breath, it’s shaky.

One day he’s going to see her from a new angle, her legs triangled out around his waist, his cock holding her open for him to look and he can picture it now, but at the same time it feels like one of those things you shouldn’t wait for.

The warm hand holding his face, drops, back on his knee, and then moving up along his leg and behind her back, he chokes when she finds him. “You don’t have to,” he tells her. Even though he wants her tiny hand touching him.

“Can’t unzip you anyway, next time.”

In his head there’s an unprompted scenario playing out, one where they forget about turns and move on to things like his tongue on her clit while she sucks him, one big turn where everyone is satisfied. He starts imaginary conversations with her in his head that lead to less clothes and more cumming.

But the heel of her hand stays pressed against the thick line of his dick, trapped inside his jeans, throbbing. He presses on her clit, prodding it with two removed slick fingers, her head tilts against his collar, chin raised and eyes closed, “In.”

He circles her clit instead until she asks again, insistent, her hand leaving his lap to push his where she wants it, taking it’s place at the pebble hard nub.

He can’t feel his fingers,“You’re pushing back. Just relax.”

“Sorry,” her hips jumping up, feet planted on the bed for leverage, “I just…, try to cancel it out,” she sounds desperate. He wonders if she wants him to use his powers to make her cum, if that’s the suggestion she’s really making. He thinks about what it’d be like to, thinks about her asking one day.

“It’s on or it’s off, mostly. I don’t want to give you too much.” He doesn’t. He’s going to get himself killed, one day. There will be a lesson where clothes come off, all of them and he’s inside of her, and if he can’t take it then he’s dead. He doesn’t want to give her something she doesn’t ask for. He realizes that he wants her to ask, this time she doesn’t.

“Okay, it’s okay. That’s enough then.” She shifts, legs coming together and her hand pushing his away, turning in his lap and tucking her skirt between her thighs. “My powers are just more sensitive now.” She sounds self-conscious suddenly, but her smiles is proud. Progress being made. It makes him decide to evaluate his own, he knows there’s Madison a shout away, Nan to hear if he starts to die, Paulie to get him back home. His hands massage her knees, “Wait.”

She does and he leans forward to speak against her throat, “I want to.”

Her head tilts back, pulse throbbing on his bottom lip, huffing out, “What?”

“I just want to finish you off. If you want.”

He looks up at her eyes, pupils eating up the color, glassy, so turned on that he knows it hurts, his fingers have feeling again when he sucks on them, tastes her on his skin. He’d made sure to read the books she gave him.

She watches his mouth, nods mute and lifts her skirt. He tilts his head and looks down, she’s bare but he wants to see everything, he shifts and pushes her back, kisses her navel and looks between her thighs while her arms spread akimbo above her head.

She’s pink and swollen, her thighs part open further, coquette and waiting, “use three,” she says and he pushes them inside, watches how her cunt takes them in, he kisses her knee and feels high on the way she smells. Needy, wet. The back of her hand is over her mouth, her eyes everywhere, skirting around the room like she’s lost. A knuckle between her teeth while her hips lift and fall under his hand.

The sound, sloppy hot. He sucks hard on her skin, wants her to see something he’s left on her later in the mirror, when he’s left and she’s alone at night. Separate beds, lonely and bored and guilty about so many things.

Her expression is brittle like a wishbone, he wants to feel her snap, fill up with the satisfaction of the sound.

This time he sees her cum. She tilts her head to the side and twists, thighs tight, her hand pressing his fingers deeper while he keeps moving her clit in tight circles with the fingers of his free hand.

“Was that okay?” Her eyes are closed and her bare chest works, “Yeah, yeah.” Her hips stutter up, undulate against his hand and the bed, her insides still squeezing lazily. She lets go of his hand and stretches under him, she looks pliant and soft and lovely.

He wipes at his face, another bloody nose, his throat feels tight but otherwise he’s alright enough to grin, “Your powers are getting stronger, is that good or bad?”

She shrugs, hair moving over the sheets, “Both, I guess. It feels different.” Her thighs are still rubbing together under her skirt. He feels a little more like a man watching her in the aftermath of an orgasm he’s given her.

“What does it feel like?”

Her eyes open, head rolling on the bed and she shrugs again, eyes off him and looking at empty space, “Less intense, but it still feels go…” She stops suddenly and with a hand coming up to her mouth, eyes wide and horrified, three quick drops of blood from his nose on her forehead and cheek and covered mouth.

He puts palms on her cheeks, twisting his head to try and hold her gaze, “What’s wrong? Hey.” She’s not flushed anymore, gone pale. There’s a knock on the door.

It gets her back, “I’m sorry.” And she’s out from under him him, knees on the bed and off it on the other side, she’s secluded behind the bathroom door in second, there’s the sound of something being knocked over, he can hear her throw up.

He sits on the bed and fills in the word she couldn’t finish. ‘Good’, how it felt when she killed Archie, when she killed her boyfriend whose name he can’t remember, mostly because he doesn’t want to.

Madison bangs on the door and then knocks it open, “Zoe?”

“She’s in there.”

“You should go now.”

In the bathroom she sobs, her chest is on fire and the wet stick of arousal between her thighs is cold and lonely and awful.

This time she doesn’t tell Madison to go away, she just lets someone hold onto her while she falls apart.

“Hey Paulie, have you seen The Napoleonic Wars?”

Paulie looks up from his laptop alone in the sitting room, shakes his head. “Sorry, buddy. He isn’t in his cage?”

Squirrel’s eyebrows pull in the middle. He isn’t touching anything in the room, an island on the hardwood. “No. I always read to him before bed, he likes Whitman, but I can’t find him anywhere.”

In a grey tank top and sweatpants, Paulie looks comfortable, two fingers on the touchpad, scrolling through Reddit. He shuts the computer and sets it on the coffee table, belly red because it had been getting too hot. He pats the spare cushion, motions Squirrel over. “Don’t worry. He’s gotten out before. We always find him.”

Reluctant at first, tensed to leave and continue his hunt, Squirrel’s shoulders sag and he comes closer, he sits.

Paulie flattens a palm between his shoulder blades, rubs in soothing circles like his mom used to when he was a kid and woke up from bad dreams. God, he misses his mom, fucking pasta with real red sauce instead of ketchup.

Squirrel’s eyes are puppydog sad and beseeching. “He’s my best friend, Paulie.” And suddenly Paulie realizes that maybe he’s been neglecting Squirrel lately, that they all have. Because Squirrel doesn’t demand. Peter needs an audience, Dalton needs an inferior, Kyle needs a buddy, and even Paulie knows he does things to get people to notice.

A house full of lost boys, Squirrel’s a lot like the tinkerbell, maybe-Paulie scraps the thought, Squirrel is the lost boy in rabbit pajamas..

He’s different and he’s quiet, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t get lonely, and Paulie feels selfish, drooling over Madison and halving his time with Kyle and Peter while Squirrel takes longs walks in the park to touch the leaves and cobblestones alone.

His arm hooks around Squirrel’s shoulders, tipping the other boy into his side. “Hey, wanna go watch something on Netflix? Your pick, and if The Napoleonic Wars doesn’t turn up by morning we will get the whole house together for a manhunt.”

“Yes,” Squirrel says with a wobbly smile, leaving his little book of poems with the laptop on the table when they get up to microwave popcorn and reset the router upstairs.

“Can we watch Deadliest Catch?”

“Really?”

“Crabs that live in cold water are not very nice you know. They will eat your eyeballs if they can get to them.”

“Fuck those eyeball eaters.”

Sagely, Squirrel nods.

Much later that night, when all of the boys in bed are asleep, the one in the attic looks over and reaches out a hand, a lost reptile crawls onto his palm, rests a moment in strange, unnatural stillness, and scurries away. The boy’s eyes close and he slumps back, he still breathes and his heart still beats but his eyes dilate, incoherently seeing things he thought he never would again. The Napoleonic Wars skitters across the wood floor and disappears amongst boxes, waiting for the ladder to come down.

#grayglube #ohyellowbird #tag ; madison montgomery .#tag ; zoe benson .#tag ; kyle spencer .

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